I watch as Willow releases the bowstring and the arrow digs straight into a tree four yards away from the intended target. I stand up and chuckle as she stares after the arrow looking crestfallen. "Why can't I do this?" she says. "I'll never be as good as you."

I smile as I retrieve the arrow and sit down next to her. "You just need more practise," I say and plant a kiss between my daughter's eyes. "I wasn't exactly an expert age ten."

Sitting by the lake in the woods I know so well, I have been teaching my daughter how to hunt and gather. Under the new government in the Capitol meaning the starvation that was once rife in the old District 12 is near-gone this seems somewhat pointless. But old habits never die, and I spend a lot of time in the woods with Willow, just the two of us. Hunting and gathering. It remind me of a time when I did this with my father. They were some of the happiest days I have ever known. So I bring Willow here, hoping she will taste the freedom I do.

"But it is not just archery," Willow says. "I can't bake when Dad tries to teach me. I can't cook or sing or anything!"

I pause for a moment and think before I reply. My reply won't hurt her, but it might risk triggering memories I have spent twenty years trying to control. I gaze at her fondly. "You can gather and heal," I say, brushing strands of dark hair out of her face. "I know only two people who can do it like you. My mother, your grandmother, is one." I don't mention the second person. Whenever I think about Prim too much my eyes begin to sting with tears. Talking about her is worse. It has been 20 years since her death. I stopped grieving so hard a while ago, mostly for Peeta's sake. I love him too much to burden him with that. But I still see her and feel her everywhere. Buttercup has gone though, which makes it easier. He stayed with me for a while after her death but he soon got sick of me and took off into the woods. He occasionally came back to check on me and bring me some dead rodent but he's stopped nowadays. He's probably dead now. Stupid cat. As much as I hated him, we ended up caring for each other through our mutual love for Prim.

Willow and I pack up our game bag and begin our trek back to 12. On the outskirts of the woods I pick a small bunch of wildflowers and scatter them carefully around the Meadow. I do this ritual every time I pass through, alone or otherwise. My children do not understand why but Peeta does. Someday we will explain about the mass grave that lies beneath the fresh earth and lush grass. How Peeta's family, Madge and the other innocent people were slaughtered in the massacre during the firebomb raid in the second Revolution. But not today. I don't want to frighten them at such a young age when we have such peace as we do now.

We continue walking until we reach the fence bordering District 12. It is completely unnecessary and the electricity that used to course through it no longer exists. The only reason it still stands today is to keep out predators, but even they are limited in these parts.

Willow and I walk through the area that was once the Seam before the firebombs destroyed it. Small tufts of grass started to grow out of the ashes and now a thin layer of the stuff covers the entire area. But nobody has attempted to rebuild there. It has become an unofficial memorial to the dead, as many victims came from there.

As the years went by, people slowly returned to 12. Houses and shops and even a small factory for medicine had been built. Everything is new except for the Victors' Village. The only place spared by the bombings. Once a deserted area, as people had returned it became their new homes since there hadn't been any attempts as rebuilding yet. But once the new Capitol was up and running smoothly, it wasn't long until they supplied us with the necessary tools, equipment and funding to build new houses. As Victors in the Hunger Games, Peeta and I still received our annual winnings so we used a lot of it to help refugees get back on their feet. Most of the surviving residents returned to 12, although some moved to other districts, like my mother and Gale, now that it was possible. Not many stayed in District 13 for long.

Soon enough, Willow and I reach our home in the Victors' Village. After our wedding, Peeta and I chose to move into my house, since he never really felt at home in his. He admitted to me that he felt most welcome in my home anyway. I dump the game bag on the floor and hang up my father's hunting jacket. Rye, my young son, comes running into the hall covered from head to foot in flour. It is clear that Peeta has been teaching him to bake.

"Mummy! Mummy!" he screams, hugging my knees tightly. "Guess what, Mummy?"

"What?" I say, humouring him. But at that moment Peeta enters the hallway from the kitchen. He kisses me and mutters, "Uncle Haymitch is here."

I walk through to the kitchen where, passed out at the table, Haymitch sits. An empty glass stands near where his hand is and in his other is the knife he always sleeps with. I smell the dregs left behind in the glass and a strong liquor smell hits me. Suddenly, before I can stop her, Willow pokes her head around the doorframe and runs over to Haymitch. "Haymitch!" she yells in his ear. Haymitch looks up with a start but he doesn't flail his knife around, as he always does whenever Peeta and I try to rouse him. Instead he looks around before spotting Willow. He picks her up and sits her on his knee. Ever since she was born, Willow and Haymitch have had a special relationship that I'm sure even he couldn't explain. Willow is the only person who can calm him down when he rages, she is the only one who can cheer him up while he is sober, the only one who can wake him without him slashing someone. Even the sound of her voice cheers him up greatly.

"So, how was your hunting trip?" Haymitch asks Willow.

"It was alright. I didn't shoot anything, though," Willow replies.

"You shot that tree," I point out, trying to lift her spirits.

"Who shot these?" Peeta says, walking into the kitchen holding the rabbits, the empty game bag discarded and forgotten by the front door. He winks at Willow and I help him to gut and skin them.

That night the five of us sit down to the most delicious rabbit and beef stew with some fresh bread. It reminds me of times before I became pregnant and it was just Peeta and I living together. We'd spend all day together either walking or working on the memory book and at night we'd fall asleep together. It was this that helped me pull through my grieving after Prim's death. Peeta's presence is what kept me going through that time.

We all finish our stew apart from Rye, who seems to be more interested in our reaction to the bread Peeta made than eating his stew. Even though it was mainly Peeta, we all have to give him some credit for making the bread. So we all, even Haymitch, congratulate him whole-heartedly. Being only seven, Rye laps this up. Then the phone begins to ring.

Our phone is hardly ever used. Haymitch doesn't have a phone in his house anymore so he never rings us. He wouldn't anyway because we only live next-door. Peeta never has any reason to call anyone and the only time I use it is when I make the odd call to my mother to check she is still okay. Sometimes, if I forget, she will ring me but that is rare. I haven't rung her recently and it is probably her ringing now. But as I rise to pick it up I glance at the clock on the wall. 18:30. My mother always rings in the afternoon when she has finished her shift in the hospital. It is with unease that I tentatively pick up the phone.

"Hello?" I say.

"Katniss?"

I feel the blood drain from my face. I know that voice. But I haven't spoken to him in years. Twenty years to be precise.

"Katniss, it's me. It's Gale."